disc: i don't own anything! please don't sue me!
warning: slash, aka man and man
a/n: well christmas is finally here and i wrote this today (christmas eve) leaving it until the last minute like everything else! thanks for all the super duper reviews on "Weakness", and i have been thinking about how they got together, but can't yet think of a believable situation. when i do, i'll write it! this is festive and fluffy and i hope you all enjoy it! merry Christmas!
You wake to the smell of pine needles and ginger biscuit, floating through the air and invading your overly large nostrils.
Although it isn't an entirely unpleasant smell, it certainly isn't one you are delighted to be smelling before you've even managed to force open your eyes, or take note of the raging headache that is the result of last night's antics with two bottles of firewhisky, several shot glasses and a pack of cards.
Someone is stroking your face.
That is certainly cause to grimace in displeasure-if only you had the energy.
"Merry Christmas," someone whispers in your ear.
Without opening you eyes, "I don't see what is so merry, Potter."
"You were," you can hear the little brat grinning. "Last night."
Well, you left yourself wide open to that one.
You sigh and open one eye.
Of course he is looking as delectable as ever, hair all mussed up, eyes morning bright, perfect red lips smiling their perfect red smile.
Merlin, you're becoming worse everyday.
He is waving something infront of your face, and in your less than alert state of mind it takes you a moment to recognise the green-leafed, white-berried abomination before you.
Mistletoe.
He grins at you.
"Christmas kiss?"
When you don't reply he shakes it a little.
"It's tradition."
"Yes, the most iniquitous tradition invented," you snap, snatching the mistletoe and shoving it under your pillow. "And not one that I have any intention of being a participate."
He pouts at you, an extremely tempting pout, but before you can succumb you stumble, somewhat ungracefully (damn firewhisky), out of bed and into the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind you.
In the shower you lean your forehead against the tiles, hot water sluicing down your body, and take deep breaths, trying to combat the pounding behind your eyes.
You don't think of him, and the hurt in his eyes as you refused to give him his bloody Christmas kiss.
It was just a damn kiss for heaven's sake!
"Urgh!"
You let out an extremely undignified cry and bang your head against the wall, which only succeeds in sending a burst of stars across your eyesight and the sensation of almost knocking yourself unconscious.
Not, perhaps, the best of ideas.
The mistletoe is hanging over the bathroom door when you emerge.
You set it alight on your way out.
The day passes like the great, crawling hell it usually does, filled with over cheerful (Albus), present grabbing (Albus), cracker pulling (Albus) nuisances (Everyone else).
You scowl at your breakfast, scowl at the Christmas trees, scowl at Nearly headless Nick, who tries to sing you a Christmas carol –a Christmas carol, for Merlin's sake!
In fact, the only part of the day in which you are not scowling at someone or something is when you unwittingly spot Harry and his friends from a third floor window, having a snowball fight.
He laughs as Weasley throws an appalling shot that misses him by a mile, only to be struck in the back of the head by Granger. He scoops up a handful of snow, flinging it toward her, and gets a hit from Weasley.
He looks so happy, so at ease.
It feels you with a sort of protective urge, which you are not sure you like too much, and a strange sadness, the cause of which you do not want to investigate.
You turn away, unsettled, and seek refuge in the dungeons, your dungeons, the only place in the world where you can just be…you.
Harry.
You sigh, running a hand across your face.
Harry.
You know now that it is more than a silly fling, more than just a bit of fun. But by the time you realised, you were in too deep. Lost.
Or maybe you knew it from the beginning, and that is why you dared to hope.
You smile inwardly.
He may be an impossible brat, but he's your impossible brat.
Not that today has exactly been the highlight of your relationship.
You had hoped Christmas might have been different this year, but no, not with his bloody mistletoe obsession. Instead of spending the day with him, you've spent it trying to run away from him as he pops up from all manner of places with a piece of the damn stuff.
He ambushed you outside the Great Hall after breakfast, from behind a suit of armour in the charms corridor before lunch, from behind the portrait to the kitchen, underneath a stone archway, through a window, even in the bloody toilets.
It's a wonder he managed to spend any time with his friends at all, he was so busy stalking you!
But now, now you feel an unexpected ache of loneliness, sitting here, alone, in your cold dungeons.
Still alone.
Why does it bother you now, when before you had no one?
Does his presence only increase the ache when he's not there?
You're becoming co-dependant.
That is not a good thing.
Before you can dwell on these unsettling thoughts any longer, he is bounding in, tracking snow across you deep blue carpet, grinning at you with flushed cheeks.
"Where are your," you hesitate, allowing the tiniest sneer to cross your face, "friends?"
He frowns, and your heart twinges.
Why do you insist on hurting him?
Why do you insist on hurting yourself?
"They're at Gryffindor tower," he replies. "I told them I had something to do."
You eye him suspiciously.
"You're not going to attack me with mistletoe again. I will take house points."
He laughs and shakes his head.
"No." He grins. "Not yet, anyway."
He reaches into his pocket and withdraws a small package. "I've come to give you your Christmas present."
"Ah, yes."
You stand and move to a small chest of drawers, open one and pull out your own gift.
You stand facing each other, then solemnly exchange gifts.
It feels odd, almost ceremonial.
You watch as tears off the wrapping, still a child in so many ways.
The thought stings you.
He looks at the square brown box, then flashes you a smile before opening the lid.
You hold you breath.
He lifts the object up, between thumb and forefinger.
"It's…beautiful," he whispers.
You feel a sweep of relief.
"It's…wow. I mean…wow."
"Very eloquent," you remark, but you are smiling. "If you insist on playing that horrific sport I decided at least you could play in style."
"Thank you! Thank you so much!"
He is staring at the golden snitch in his hand, carefully engraved with his initials, as if it is some kind of holy relic.
Suddenly, he launches himself at you, throwing his arms around your neck and almost knocking you backwards.
"Thank you," he whispers in your ear.
You try not to seem too pleased.
He pulls back, and you hate yourself for missing the warmth.
"Open yours!"
That childlike joy is back, and you feel yourself smiling as you carefully undo the golden ribbon, then the silver wrapping paper.
Inside is a black box.
You raise an eyebrow at him, then carefully lift the lid.
The sight within takes your breath away.
Like a child in a sweet shop, your face lights up as you stare at the colourful selection within.
Bundimun eyes, golden Re'em hide, essence of lava, Streeler shells, Kelpie mane, Shark tooth, golden bulrush, Koala claws, Phoenix feathers…
It goes on and on.
You have never seen so many rare and unusual potion ingredients together in one place.
You look at him, feeling the odd sensation that you can't speak properly, and whisper, "Harry…I…"
He looks worried.
"I asked the man in the shop," he says, running his hand through his hair. "He said they were all rare, and the best." He bites his lip. "I can take them back, get you something else. It's no problem-"
"No," you say hurriedly. "No, they're, well, perfect."
He looks at you, almost disbelieving. "Really?"
"There are no words. Of all the gifts I have received this one it," you hesitate. "It comes straight from the heart."
He smiles slightly. "From the heart, to the heart."
He is no longer an over excited child. He is wise and older and everything.
"Come into the bedroom," he whispers.
You raise an eyebrow. "Can't you control your sexual urges for ten minutes?"
"Haha. Just come."
He grabs your hand and pulls, so you have no choice really.
Not that you're complaining.
He turns to look at you, a ridiculously large grin on his face, then pushes the door open.
The place is covered in mistletoe.
It's hanging from the ceiling, blanketing the floor, bed, chest, chair –even the window.
Mistletoe.
He is standing behind you, preventing any hope of escape.
"I made it my mission," he purrs in your ear, "to get you somehow, somewhere today."
"Good for you," you mutter, but the truth is your having trouble concentrating, with his breath caressing your neck, and his hands sliding around your waist.
And you criticized him for his sexual urges.
"And now," he whispers, "there is finally nowhere to run."
"Perhaps," you say, "I am tired of running."
"Good," he replies. "I'm glad."
You turn to face him, and finally, oh finally, you share a Christmas kiss.
A Christmas kiss which leads to a Christmas something else on the mistletoe covered floor. Not that you're complaining.
Afterwards he lays with his head on your chest; a warm, comforting lump.
"Happy Christmas," he says.
"Happy Christmas," you reply, and realise, for one of the first times, that it actually is a happy Christmas.
You glance around the room and resist the urge to chuckle.
Bloody mistletoe.